


My Journal of a Plague Year

by claire99



Category: The Janet Watson Chronicles - Claire O'Dell
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:27:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24515362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claire99/pseuds/claire99
Summary: A short story about Janet Watson when she was twelve
Kudos: 5





	My Journal of a Plague Year

**May 5**

Hello, New Journal. Let me introduce myself.

 _*puts on my fancy, formal hat with a peacock feather_ *

My name is Janet Idara Watson. I’m twelve, going on thirteen, and I live with my mother, my father, and my annoying baby sister in Suitland, Maryland, which if you don’t know already, is right next to Washington, DC.

We didn’t always live here. Up until four years ago, we lived on a dirt farm in Georgia with our grandparents, our aunts and uncles, and more cousins than I can count. I loved that farm. I thought I would live there forever. But then my parents decided to move North. Better schools, they said. Better chances for us kids. Grandma didn’t like that, but she didn’t have much choice. The only thing she could do was argue, which didn’t change anyone’s mind.

Anyway, we moved up to Suitland with nothing more than our clothes, a few things Mama had brought into the family, and a couple hundred dollars of savings.

It wasn’t easy. We didn’t know anyone, and everything cost more—a lot more. Mama took jobs cleaning houses for white ladies in Silver Spring. Daddy found work mowing lawns and cutting back bushes and whatever else he could find. Our apartment building is one ugly pile of concrete, but at least our neighbors are good folx—

_*pause* *takes off the hat*_

Good god, what kind of crap did I just write? It’s all true, sure, but it’s not anywhere close to _all_ the truth. I won’t tear out the page, though. It’s a good reminder how our brain likes to edit for nice.

**Later. After dinner.**

Okay, here’s my first real entry. Mama bought me a journal today. I never had one before, not a proper one, just cheap notebooks and ball point pens. _This_ one has thick creamy paper with edges like pigeon feathers and a genuine leather cover. When I riffled through the pages, it was like opening a bottle of perfume, except this perfume smelled like fresh paper and ink, like someone had bottled a library. Mama even bought me a fountain pen and a bottle of ink—green, my favorite color.

Did I tell you how much I love this journal? Because I do.

Grace and Daddy got their own presents. Grace squealed when she unwrapped that bottle of fancy coconut oil for her hair. And when Daddy unwrapped his tin of tobacco—Well, he had that worried look, the one that said, _Do I want to know where all this money came from?_

Mama just smiled at him. “Ms. Spencer,” she said quietly. “She was feeling a mite guilty.” She glanced over at Grace, who’d opened her coconut oil and was sniffing it with a dreamy grin on her face. To me, she just nodded—the difference between twelve and nine, I guess, because she went right ahead and told Daddy how old Ms. Spencer had paid for six months cleaning, even though we’re all stuck at home.

(AND OMG DID I MENTION WE HAVE A PANDEMIC????!!! AGAIN???!!!!)

I didn’t need to ask why the presents—Mama wanted to make up for us having nothing at Christmas. Little Miss Princess, _aka_ Grace, chattered on about who was this nice lady and what had she done with our mama. Mama didn’t take back Grace’s gift, but she did make her do all the washing up after supper.

Was I wrong to laugh so hard?

**9 PM**

Yeah, yeah, another entry from Yours Truly. This rate, I’ll run out of ink, but I NEED to get all these feelings out of my brain and onto paper.

See, if this were an ordinary day, Grace and I’d both be doing our homework. Except there hasn’t been an ordinary day since last Monday, when they cancelled school and shut down the state. Mama found an old arithmetic workbook for Grace, a calculus primer for me, and Daddy gave us reading assignments for history, but all the libraries are closed, and everyone’s thrown up their hands. Again.

So now Grace sits in her bed, mending socks and stinking of too much coconut oil. I’m writing down all my angriness—is that even a word???—and hoping I get to graduate from middle school, never mind high school. (Or college. Not likely, but a girl can dream.) Outside, people are setting off fireworks for Cinco de Mayo.

Last time we had a pandemic, families in Alexandria and Georgetown hired special tutors or paid extra for online classes. The poor folks did whatever they could but it wasn’t much (see above, about the libraries). _Our_ mothers and fathers couldn’t afford the fancy tablets or laptops, never mind the fees for classes and books and tutors.

This year, even the rich folks are in a panic. They’ve been calling their senators and representatives, demanding “their civil liberties” and “the right to a fair and decent education for their children.” They even talked about special funding for virtual schools.

Which…sounds nice, yanno, but are they going to invite us Black and brown kids into their virtual classrooms?

~~Trick question. Of course not. The government wants us stupid come November and the election.~~

Forget it. Forget all of it. Angry don’t do anyone any good, Mama says. But she says it in that weary voice, as if her own anger wore her to pieces.

Breathe, Janet. Breathe. Think about libraries bottled as perfume. Think about the grin in your sister’s face and how the smell of coconut reminds you of pies your grandmama baked on special days, down on the dirt farm in Georgia.

“You writing about me?” Grace asks.

“Maybe,” I tell her. “Go to sleep.”

She snorts and rolls her eyes.

Right. I’ll have to find good hiding spot for my journal.

**11 PM**

Still awake. It’s quiet at last.

And hot. We used to have a window fan but it broke last year, so Mama opened all the windows and bedroom doors. A breeze from outside carries the scent of smoke. It rolls around the apartment and brings back the smell of fried fish and green tomatoes. My skin itches with sweat, and I’m thinking it’s time for me to do a fresh load of laundry.

Grace finally fell asleep, all wrapped up in her favorite quilt in spite of the weather. (I know she’s really asleep, because she snores, like a tiny dragon.) Me, I’m writing one last paragraph. No, scratch that. I’m writing one whole page and this time I’m going to be honest. Not that I lied about anything so far, but I only talked about the outside of my life—the easy part as Daddy says. The truth is…

*taking lots of deep breaths*

Okay. This is hard.

The truth is that Lucas Rivera slipped me a note in Sunday school, right before the lockdown. He says he _likes_ me. Yeah, _likes_ me, like in _that_ way.

Why was that so damned hard to write? Because that’s only truth #1. See, Lucas is a good friend. We both LOVE Shuri and Spider Gwen and Mexican Gothic. He yelled at the boys in the comic book store, who said girls are fake fans, and I yelled at the girls who said Lucas wasn’t a real boy if he liked books about girls.

But I don’t like him back, not that way. God knows, I tried.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Except I know what’s wrong. Thing is, there’s a truth #3. I don’t think I can like any boy that way.

Whew. There. I said it, at least to myself.

**1AM, May 6th, and OMG why am I even keeping score?**

Damned fools and their fireworks. I thought they were done for the night, but I guess not, because half an hour ago, they started up again. What’s worse is the rattling of AK-15s. When we first moved up from Georgia, we had to get used to guns going off in the middle of the night. (We had to get used to a lot of things. Living in a pile of concrete. Summers—especially August—where we couldn’t breathe because of the smog. No more dirt farm, no more starry, starry nights.)

But these past couple months, there’ve been more guns, more AK-15s. More people so _angry_.

When the first guns went off, Grace climbed into my bed, bringing her teddy bear and her quilt, and now she’s pretending to sleep while I write in my journal, but I can feel her shivering next to me. I’m scared too.

Mama and Daddy are awake too. After we got robbed last month, we don’t have a TV, but we do have an old-fashioned radio from Grandpa Benjamin. They’ve set the channel to one of DC’s underground stations. From what I can hear, some folks are protesting against the President, angry that he’s called for a federal lock-down until we get this year’s pandemic under control. Others are crazy mad about the DNC and how they act so two-faced when it comes to candidates who aren’t old white men.

Maybe I’m crazy mad too. I mean… We had eight years with a mealy-mouthed white man in the White House, who called himself a Democrat, but who spent all this time yammering about “both sides” and “crossing the aisle.” Daddy and Mama voted for him, but they weren’t happy about it. Daddy said, _I’ll cross the goddamned aisle when those goddamned Nazis stop trying to kill us._

If I had to, if I could vote… I don’t know. I don’t like our Democratic President, but I _hate_ the GOP. The last time they ran things, Trump set the whole country on fire.

I wish I had someone to hug and kiss. Not Lucas, even though he’s my friend. I wish I could find ~~someone~~ a girl to love and who loved me back. It wouldn’t make things better, but it would feel nice.

**2AM**

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

My hands are shaking so much I can’t hardly read my own writing. We’re locked down tight in the basement—me, Grace, our parents, and most of our neighbors. I’m writing this by the light of a pencil flashlight.

Grace had gone back to sleep. I was waiting for the ink to dry in my journal, and thinking where to hide it. Not under my pillow. Not under the mattress either. The top shelf of the closet might work…until the first time I had to fetch it out. Keeping secrets in a tiny three-room apartment ain’t easy.

I’d just decided to tuck the journal under the mattress and deal with it tomorrow, when the whole world blew up.

Grace bolted upright. I tried to breathe but all the air had disappeared.

Mama burst into the room. “Get into the basement now,” she said. “Hurry. Don’t worry getting dressed. _Move_!”

I snatched up my journal and our masks. Poor Grace froze, all wild-eyed. I wanted to scream at her to get going, _now_ dammit, but she’s just a little kid, so I took a deep breath. Help her with her mask, then put mine on as well. I kissed her on the forehead. Just like that, she calmed down and hugged her teddy bear tight. “Quilt?” she said softly.

“No time for that,” I whispered. “You already have Ted-Bear. Race you to the basement.”

A second, louder boom rocked the building and shattered the windows. I grabbed my sister by the hand and we ran out the apartment with Mama close behind. The stairwell was crowded with all our neighbors, but we’d drilled for emergencies like this, so no one pushed or shoved, and everyone was wearing a mask.

Down in the basement, old Mr. Pham was waiting for us. He’d already unlocked the old army lockers, which he’d scrounged up from somewhere after the last emergency. All the families had contributed supplies. Blankets. Sleeping bags. Bottle of clean water. Extra masks. A first aid kit. A propane stove and oil lanterns. There were even tins of baked beans and spam, instant coffee, and condensed milk.

I got Grace settled with Ted-Bear and a sleeping blanket, while Mama took roll call.

“Where’s Daddy?” I whispered when she finished.

“Don’t worry about him,” she said. “I ain’t.”

She was lying, but I knew better than to call her out.

Just then, Daddy showed up with Miss Rose and her sister Ivory. Seems they needed help climbing down the stairs. He waved to Mama. Mama’s whole face changed—except it was more like a thousand tiny changes all at once—like a giant hand had erased all the worry and replaced it with joy.

One day I want to love someone as much as they love each other.

Mr. Pham locked the door, while two other men heaved the iron bars into their slots, then he turned off the overhead light, leaving us with only a single oil lamp. Mama’s count showed us five short—the Ramírez brothers and their cousin, Sofía Ortíz—but we couldn’t risk hunting them down. For all we knew, they’d gone to watch fireworks with their friends, in spite of the quarantine. But if they did show up, they knew the code words to yell.

**Later. No clocks, no watches. Still can’t sleep.**

Lights off. No windows. Everything smells of dust and damp, except Grace and her coconut oil. It’s cooler here, in the basement, but the air is stuffy and dank, and I can’t breathe properly. Because I can’t breathe, I can’t sleep.

It doesn’t help that I’m surrounded by twenty-something grown-ups and thirty or forty kids. Miss Ivory told me sixty families once lived here, but times got harder, and folks didn’t have the money for even this dump. Mr. DNC Candidate Governor Scott talks a good talk about “reviving the working-class economy,” but I don’t trust him. Working class ends up meaning white, as if the rest of us don’t exist.

*stabbity stabbity stabbity*

Enough. I can write about Mr. Scott later.

So. Everyone else is asleep, even Alice Johnson’s colicky baby. Only me, my parents, and Mr. Pham are still awake. Miss Rose loaned me a penlight and an old paperback to read. Mama had brought our old radio and extra batteries. She and Daddy and Mr. Pham are listening to a local station with the volume turned down while I read about a shapeshifter called Moon. I really like this book—it’s all about outsiders—but I couldn’t help listening to the radio too.

The official tl;dr version is: a gang of white boys started a fight with a group of homeboys. It all turned nasty when a bigger gang of whites showed up with guns and pipe bombs. Funny how the newsfeeds call homeboys _gangs_ and _thugs_ , but white boys are just good friends, defending themselves.

Daddy says the Alt-Right and KKK are riling things up before the election. Mr. Pham thinks the Russians might be pulling puppet strings. I think they’re both right.

**WTF???**

I must’ve dozed off because the next thing I know, someone’s banging—hard—on the basement door.

All around me, folks are whispering. Mr. Pham hisses at us to keep quiet. He switches on his own penlight and sneaks all quiet-foot toward the door, his revolver cocked. Alejandro Morales takes the opposite side. He got a two-by-four spiked with nails. Harsh, but necessary. We’ve had troubles with addicts and gangs wanting to rob our cellar.

Just then, the Jackson baby, bless its colicky little heart, starts wailing like an ambulance. Alice snatches up her little boy and offers her breast. He settles down to a good suck, but the pounding didn’t stop. All the rest of us hold our breath.

“Goddamn you,” cries a woman. “Let us in.”

It’s Sofía Ortíz.

Mama lights on the oil lamp. Before anyone can argue about drills or security, Sofía shouts the code words.

Willy Jackson and Alejandro Morales wrestle the bars from their slots. Mr. Pham unlocks the door and Sofía tumbles through, followed by two of the Ramírez brothers, Manny and Sebastián. Sebastián’s got both arms around his brother’s waist. Manny’s eyes are swollen shut, and his feet keep tangling together.

Mama’s already rousted up a sleeping bag and blanket. She spreads the sleeping bag over the floor, and Sebastián lowers his brother gently onto it. Mama starts to cover Manny with the blanket, then stops. Her eyes stretch wide in horror.

I’ve seen a lot since we moved up North. A drunk who punched his girlfriend in the face. A cop who tasered a little girl when she didn’t stop screaming after he shot her brother. But this… Manny’s face looks raw and purple. Blood soaks his T-shirt, a dark wet stain that’s growing larger.

I swallow hard.

A woman steps into the basement. A Black woman, her complexion darker than mine, her cheeks drawn in sharp angles, her eyes dark brown and fierce. She’s wearing loose trousers and a sleeveless shirt, bright green and orange and gold. A scarf covers her head, and thick locs cascade down her back. She’s also wearing gloves and a plain gray mask.

“I’m Dr. Molina,” she says. “Sofía tells me you have medical supplies.”

Her voice is like velvet, her accent from the Caribbean.

“We do,” Mama says. “What do you need?”

“Soap. Hot water. Rubbing alcohol and bandages.” Her eyes crinkle, as if she’s smiling. “Anesthesia and antibiotics would be lovely, but I realize that would be too much to expect.”

“You might be surprised,” Mama says under her breath.

That gets another smile from the doctor. “I adore happy surprises.”

Mama fetches a couple pots, the propane stove, and a jug of distilled water from our lockers. While she boils water, I dig out the first aid kit with bandages and the big bottle of rubbing alcohol. We don’t have antibiotics or anesthesia, but Mr. Pham produces a bottle of corn whiskey from one of his pockets.

“Very nice,” Dr. Molina says. “I don’t suppose you have a pair of clamps or forceps. No? Well, we can make do.”

She takes a knife from her belt and bends over Manny Ramírez. He’s sweating. Underneath his bruises, his face has turned an ugly gray. Sofía is weeping. So is Manny’s brother Sebastián. I want to ask what happened to the other two brothers, but I don’t dare.

Dr. Molina cuts through the T-shirt and folds the cloth aside. Now I can see the hole beneath Manny’s ribs. Its edges are black and puckered. Blood wells out, almost as though the hole were breathing, breathing blood.

“We weren’t doing anything wrong,” Sofía whispers. “We were watching the fireworks. Drinking beer. Nobody bothered anyone. But then those goddamned red hats came riding by, throwing bricks and shooting at everyone. Called us thieves and wetbacks. Said they’d report us to ICE—"

Her voice chokes. Mr. Pham hands her the flask of whiskey. She gulps down a mouthful, sputters, and swears under her breath, but already she’s stopped shaking.

Sebastián takes a slug himself, then hands the flask to Dr. Molina. She eyes the label, then nods. “Lift up his head,” she tells Sebastián. “Higher. We don’t want him to choke.”

She manages to get a mouthful into Manny before he chokes anyway. He’s gasping and whimpering, like a tiny baby. Pain can do that, I know.

I want to find those goddamned red hats. I want to punch them hard. But I’m only twelve.

 _You can’t save the world, baby,_ my Daddy told me more than once. _You just have to look for ways you can make it better._

All this time, Dr. Molina’s been coaxing Manny to drink more whiskey. She doesn’t leave off until he goes limp in his brother’s arms.

“Right,” the doctor says. “That’s all we can do for his pain. Let’s take care of that bullet.”

“Bullet?” Alice squeaks.

Dr. Molina ignores her. She shakes out her scarf—it’s a lot bigger than I had guessed—twists her locs into an even thicker mass, and binds them securely with the scarf. Meanwhile, Sebastián fetches a pillow for his brother, and Miss Ivory goes rooting around in her sewing basket.

“Might this be a help?” Miss Ivory says.

She hands over a couple tapestry needles, a crochet hook, and a pair of tweezers to the doctor.

The doctor gets a look on her face like Miss Ivory has just discovered gravity. “This will indeed. Thank you, ma’am.”

She hands the items to Sofía. “Boil these. Miss Ivory, please make a gag for our patient, something thick and soft that he can bite down on. We also need clean rags, as many as you have. Oh, and if someone could find a saucer or bowl.” She goes on rapping out orders, like she was a captain in the army. All of a sudden, she points at me. “Count how many bandages we have. Quick, girl.”

We all jump to, glad to have an expert here. Soon enough, Miss Ivory rips a pillowcase into strips and plaits them together, Mama cuts a clean bedsheet into squares for rags, and the doctor is scrubbing her hands and arms with soap and hot water, while I lay out bandages. We even find the doctor a tin bowl, though what she needs that for, I have no idea.

“Sit on his legs,” she tells Sebastián. To Sofía, she says, “Hold his hand. Talk to him. Tell him whatever he needs to hear.”

She stares down at Manny Ramírez and closes her eyes. She _breathes_.

The next moment, she’s pulled on a fresh pair of gloves from her pocket and starts wiping away the dirt and the blood with a clean rag. Manny shakes and moans. Sofía whispers to him. Somewhere behind us, Miss Rose hums a church song. Everyone else has shrunk back into the far corners of the basement. Either they can’t stomach what’s about to happen, or they know better to get in the doctor’s way.

“I need more light,” Dr. Molina says.

Mama turns up the oil lamp, but it’s not enough. I scramble over to the doctor’s side with Miss Rose’s penlight.

“Good,” she says. “A girl who thinks. Hold it higher, higher, shine it right into the entry point.”

While she talks, she continues to gently swipe and dab around the bullet hole. Just when I think I might faint, or throw up, she leans back on her heels. “Take a break,” she tells me. “Breathe through your nose. If that doesn’t help, find a bucket.”

I almost want to curse her for reading my mind, but I concentrate on the breathing. Grace creeps up to my side and wipes my forehead with a damp cloth. Little sister, taking care of me.

What comes next is worse.

Dr. Molina tips the boiling water into a second pot, then fishes out the tweezers and crochet hook. She rubs these with alcohol, then—

*swallows hard*

*breathes through my nose*

—she pokes around inside Manny’s wound. He’s groaning and sweating. Sebastián is sweating too, but he doesn’t stop holding down his brother. Sofía speaks softly in Spanish, telling Manny how brave he is, how smart and strong. Grace has vanished. I don’t blame her. I feel dizzy myself. But I can’t close my eyes. Dr. Molina needs me to keep the penlight focused. So, I blink, breathe, bit my cheeks, while she picks out pieces of shattered bullet and drops them into the tin bowl. The bits rattle loud and sharp. I want to ask why she’d saving those bits, but then I remember a book I’d read, about a surgeon and a ship’s captain. You can’t leave any bits in the wound or it gets infected. That explains why she’s now picking out pieces of Manny’s T-shirt. It’s slow-slow-SLOW going. Every once in a while, the doctor stops to wipe away more blood, to check Manny’s pulse, or to tell me how to angle the penlight. The air stinks of whiskey and blood, but I’m no longer so queasy. I scoot closer—but not so close I get in her way—to see how the doctor operates. Her movements are gentle, precise. Everything about her says she knows exactly what she’s doing, even though this basement isn’t anywhere close to a hospital.

At last she leans back, eyes closed. Breathes that single deep breath again.

“Thank you,” she tells me. “Now get yourself some rest.”

“I can tell you’re not done,” I say. “I want to help.”

Her eyes go wide, and in spite of the mask, I can tell she’s smiling. “Do you now? Very well, how many bandages do we have?”

As if I needed to count them again. “Twenty 4x4 gauze pads,” I say, straight off. “Two rolls of gauze. Three rolls of tape, unopened. Half a box of band-aids, all different sizes.”

I expect her to laugh at me, or tell me to count again, but she just nods. “We shall need the 4x4 pads, the gauze rolls, and the tape. Also, scissors to cut the tape.”

“Miss Ivory will have those.”

“Excellent. Fetch the scissors. Have six, no, a dozen gauze pads ready to hand to me. I’ll let you know when I need the rolls or tape.”

The first three pads turn bright red. Dr. Molina swears under her breath. She presses five more into place, then with my help, she winds the gauze around his chest and tapes everything in place. “There,” she says. “That will do for now.”

“Will he live?” Sofía whispers.

“He will,” the doctor said firmly.

I see the pile of bloody rags next to her. I see Manny, stretched out on the sleeping bag, his face bruised and slick with sweat. The bandages around his ribs haven’t turned red, though. My gaze meets the doctor’s. “Go, sleep,” she says. “Doctor’s orders.”

**Morning. I think.**

Police sirens yank me awake from a muddy, murky dream. I fling my blanket to one side and heave myself onto my feet, not entirely certain where I am. Then the Jackson baby starts wailing, and someone lights an oil lantern. All around me, kids and parents are waking up, just as scared and confused as I am. Alice cuddles her baby close and tries to soothe him.

“Janet? What’s wrong?”

That’s Grace, trying not to whimper.

“Nothing,” I whispered. “Just some idiots. Don’t pay it any mind.”

Except those sirens are hard to ignore. Prince Georges County police have these new extra-loud alarms, guaranteed to penetrate brick walls and concrete.

Luckily, our drill kicks in. Daddy starts boiling water for instant coffee, Mr. Pham fries slices of spam, and Mama sets beans to warm in pots over the fire. Kids get their breakfast first, then old folks, then the rest of us.

It’s only after I have my cup of terrible coffee that I notice Dr. Molina’s been at work too. She’s collected the bloody rags into a heap and set them off to one side. She’s covered Manny with a clean blanket. She’s even washed Miss Ivory’s needles and tweezers and crochet hook, and stowed away the leftover bandages and tape. Very tidy.

I go over to where she’s leaning against the wall.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” I ask. “It’s not very good.”

“As long as it’s hot and strong and none of that decaf crap.”

Her voice is growly, but even so, I grin. “My daddy says decaf is a sin against the Lord.”

That makes her laugh.

I spoon a double spoonful in a clean cup and fill it almost to the brim with hot water. She takes a sip, then gulps down the rest, so I guess she meant what she said. I get myself a second cup and hesitate. I want to talk to the doctor, but it’s obviously she’s not slept much. Then she catches sight of me and pats the floor next to her.

I sit. Drink my own terrible coffee.

“So. What comes next?” she says after a while. “I mean, with the police.”

I shrug. “We wait. Once it’s quiet for a while, someone checks that it’s clear. Then we all go home.”

“Hmmmm. Your friends seem to have worked out a good routine.”

“Oh, that’s Mr. Pham. He learned all this from his grandfather. Something about a war of resistance against the colonizers.”

The sirens keep wailing. It’s like knives stabbing my brain. We’ve got aspirin in the first aid kit, but those are for a real emergency, so I get more coffee for me and the doctor. We drink our coffee, and when Grace comes by with plates of fried spam and beans, the doctor actually thanks her. Maybe it’s what people call a good bedside manner.

“You did well,” she says, after she finishes off the spam and beans.

“You did all the hard work.”

“Yes, but you made that work easier. So, thank you.”

I squirm. She takes a big gulp of coffee, smiles, and closes her eyes. I almost think she’s asleep when she says softly, “I always wanted to be a surgeon, you know. It wasn’t easy. It still isn’t. Puerto Rico’s never gotten over those hurricanes, and I don’t have to tell you about how so many white men think Black women aren’t good enough, no matter how hard we work. Surgeons are even worse. Sometimes, I think it’s a requirement of the job.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t dare. I want her to keep talking.

“And I did work hard,” she went on, still in that same soft voice. “I worked my ass off in high school. I applied for every single scholarship under the sun. And I got one. Mama nearly fell off her chair when that e-mail came. After that, after I graduated, I took out a student loan for medical school. I showed up every day, in spite of those white men, in spite of everything. Because it’s worth it. Because…”

Her voice fades away. I look over, and she’s asleep for real and ready to topple over. I take away the half-empty cup. I fetch my own sleeping bag and a blanket, then I ease her onto the floor. I fold the blanket and tuck it underneath her head.

**Afternoon. 5-ish.**

By noon, everything quieted down. We waited another hour, though, before we unlocked the doors and removed the iron bars. Ella and Connor Walsh went ahead to scout the situation. They came back within half an hour looking shaky.

Seems the National Guard had cleared out all the rioters, but not before the rioters set fire to a dozen cars and smashed every window in sight. (Or maybe the Guard had done the smashing, not that they’d ever admit to it.) Ella spotted a few neighbors in the next building, picking their way through the trash. No sign of the other two Ramírez brothers. Sofía closed her eyes at the news, and whispered a prayer.

One by one our neighbors left the basement. Daddy and Willy Jackson helped Miss Rose and Miss Ivory back to their apartment. Alice Jackson carried away Mr. Colicky, now snoring little baby snores. Mr. Pham and Mama stowed all our gear and supplies into the army lockers. The basement was back to looking ordinary.

Except for Manny, half awake and taking sharp breaths, while Dr. Molina checked his vital signs. “He’ll do for now,” she said, “but I want an ambulance for him ASAP.”

Sebastián started to argue, but the doctor cut him off. “He needs to get on intravenous for antibiotics and painkillers, not to mention keeping him hydrated.”

“What will you tell the police?” Sofía said.

“I will tell them the truth,” Dr. Molina said. “That he was an innocent bystander. I will also mention the chief surgeon at the VA hospital is a dear friend.” She pulled out a cell phone. “You all should leave. Fewer witnesses, fewer questions.”

The few people left vanished. Dr. Molina started to tap in a number, but she stopped when she saw I hadn’t moved. “Go,” she said softly. “I will keep this boy safe. I promise. It’s my job, after all.”

So here I am, back in my bedroom. We spent two, three hours, at least, sweeping up broken glass and scrubbing soot from the walls. Our apartment still reeks of smoke, and but we’re lucky, all of us in this building. Nothing stolen. Nothing wrecked, except the windows. And Sofía came by with the news that her cousins Matéo and Dominic were safe. They’d spent the night hiding in a different basement.

Now? Now, all’s quiet. Grace is asleep, wrapped tight in her favorite quilt. Mama and Daddy are in the kitchen.

“It’s not over,” Daddy says. “One of these days, we’ll get us a President for all the people, brown and Black and white. Then he—"

“Or she,” Mama says. “Or they.”

Daddy laughs softly. “Fair enough. Whoever that president is, they’ll do what these old white men can’t or won’t.”

It’s a thought. A nice one.

And as long as we’re thinking those nice thoughts, let’s believe that one of these days I’ll be a doctor. A surgeon. I’ll make things better. I promise.

***


End file.
